Page 135 of Captive Omega

Did he wait?

No. That’s not the first question I’d ask him.

When did he move on? Immediately? A week later? A month? Or a year?

I have the phone in my hand and I’m dialing his number before I’ve solidified what question I intend to ask.

The phone rings twice. I wait for it to click to voicemail so I can do the smart thing and leave a message for him or hang up instead of screaming down the phone like I’m about to.

Click.

“Hello?”

I freeze, phone clamped to my ear, heart thudding in my chest.

You weren’t supposed to answer. You were supposed to be at work.

“Hello? Who's there?”

My palms sweat as I cycle through all the questions circling my mind.

When did you move on?

No.

Did you ever love me?

I open my mouth.

“Who is it, Henry?” a female voice drifts from the other line, with a soft intimacy that makes it clear this isn’t just a woman stopping by.

Emily.

Henry is engaged. Did they take the day off together to plan their wedding? Is that what I’m interrupting?

I scramble to my feet and sprint across the room. As I wrench the window open, I throw the phone out, slamming the window shut the second it’s left my hand.

And I stand there, hands clenched into fists.

“Don’t cry, Resa, don’t you dare fucking cry.” But my voice breaks and I tip my head back, blinking rapidly to chase the tears away. If I start, who knows when, or even if I will ever stop?

I need to kick something. Or punch something.

I even look around. But I’m in an elegant bedroom decorated in shades of gray. The only thing worth kicking is the door or the wall and that’s far too likely to break my toe than break through my need to cry.

Vaughn’s offer rings out in my head.

“The drums,” I whisper.

Scrubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands, I walk out of my room, head down, on a mission.

I grind to a halt in the doorway, so suddenly the door smacks me in the back when it swings shut. I barely feel it. My gaze is on the man in black drumming.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to yell at him for standing me and Blaine up for self-defense practice, but I can’t seem to care about that now.

My mind is in the past. It’s on Henry and what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to the wrong heat clinic. How different would my life have been then?

“Resa?”

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